Those final violet hours
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: The gamin and the cynic. An unlikely friendship that defeats all odds, even death. Gavroche's death from Grantaire's point of view. Please feel free to read and review! (Brick, musical, 2012 film based) Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Gavroche's death from Grantaire's point of view. I wrote this ages ago, before I'd really got into fanfiction and so if any characterisations are off, please feel free to tell me! Disclaimer: As I am not male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy! x**_

Those final violet hours

The night is hot, the air sticky with the cloying stench of blood, sweat and fear. Fear that laps at leaping hearts like fire, hearts banging painfully against cages of bones, weeping hearts; weeping for a world that is crumbling, slipping like fine, black ash between cupped hands, a world that should have been ready to ignite and leap, fiery wings spread, like a phoenix soaring gracefully out of the ashes of the old world, its wingtips drenched with scarlet blood; a tribute to the fallen as it soars through the cold, clear sky of the new. A new world. A new world dancing on cold lips, as fleeting as the brief cackle of a passionate kiss placed upon rough, warn skin, quivering with fear.

Cold, calloused hands fumble through layers of cotton, slick with sweat, sticking to hard, muscular skin that quivers at a touch that is as blissfully brief as butterfly wings brushing sun kissed skin in summer. A girl's twinkling laugh floats across the heat of a summer meadow. Brushes of cotton against smooth, tanned skin. A name rises to your lips and you try to bite it back, that name that is fighting through a mouth laid barren with fear; fear of what? Of death? No. Surely not. Voices wash over you and you hear it once again. Feel it, like the soft notes of a long forgotten aria that floats through the sticky night air; as cold and as refreshing as water is to a dying man. Staccato notes filter through air thick with fear and the fiery, smoky stench of gunpowder. Wet gunpowder clogging to the dark depths of stolen barrels. You remember the rain. Remember his face. Their faces. He was too young. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have seen what he saw, standing in the flickering shadows. She was too young. A pale, oval face coated with a mask of salty tears as he watches Marius cradle her limp body in his arms, chest heaving with the painful weight of suppressed sobs as he continues to shake her useless corpse; desperately trying to ignite the fire of life that has been snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

You remember Combeferre and Courfeyrac moving silently towards the corpse lying limply across his chest in a final embrace. Her hair is a sodden mane of dark rats tails trailing down his upper arm, a mane of dirty ebony as he releases her at last, his hands slipping off her pitifully thin frame; clutching fingers falling from her sodden dress, hands stained scarlet with a final tribute from a weeping, broken heart. You never caught her name, you realise now; the girl who is now a corpse, her dress clinging pitifully to a skeletal frame. One of many… names soon to be forgotten in the chaotic mêlée of battle. The rattling wails of the muskets are silent now. Smoke embraces sleeping guards. Masks are down. The silhouette of a shadow slips silently into the darkness. You feel the cold, comforting weight of a wine bottle being pushed into hands that feel as if they have been turned to ice. Somehow the bottle is raised to your lips, but you hardly taste the wine. It slips down your throat like fire and burns feeling back into your numb chest. A small, comforting weight presses itself into your side and you look down, vision blurred slightly by tears and rain and no doubt the alcohol which allows the edges of the world to be smudged slightly by the comforting blackness of the muffled fire surging through your bloodstream.

You think of Joly, all wide eyes and wringing hands as he tries to reason with you about the dangers of drinking alcohol in excess and feel the cold ghost of a smile tugging painfully at the corners of your lips as the warm, wet weight shifts slightly, one hand creeping slowly up to grasp at the tattered lapel of your jacket. Trembling fingers crawl silently up the taught tendons of your neck and cling to you; short, sharp nails digging into the trembling gooseflesh. Gavroche. A hand moves slowly up his neck to ruffle the tousled mop of dirty blond hair. An angelic devil. You smile and let him burrow himself deeper into your chest; relishing in the small, solid weight, the thudding, fluttering iambs of his heart pressed against your own.

A shadow flickers across your path and you look up to see the grey haired stranger from earlier flanked by a pale faced Combeferre and a shivering Bahorel moving silently up towards the look out post where Marius kneels up on a broken bookshelf; shattered glass digging painfully into ripped cotton trousers, a musket shaking in trembling hands as he leans it on a jagged sheet of glass to keep it steady. Voices flutter on the still night air, fractured fragments of conversation as you watch the stranger place a steadying hand on a shaking shoulder as he raises a tear stained face to take in the shadowy profile, hands gripping the splintered wooden edge of the shelf as if he is terrified that he will be lost in the blackness of oblivion if he even dares to think about letting go. In your arms, Gavroche stirs sleepily; a skinny ball of life slowly unravelling itself as the sky slowly slips into the dark, velvety blackness of midnight. You try to smile down at the impish face, but it doesn't come, tugging painfully at the corners of your mouth before falling away into nothingness.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive critisms are love! Much love and enjoy x**_


	2. Part II

_**A/N: This is for Sarahbob who has been brilliant in giving me the slice of virtual chocolate I needed in order to contemplate posting this! Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Part II

Something brushes past your shoulder and you look up to see the shadow of Enjolras standing over you. At least you think it's Enjolras. You imagine that cold, chiselled face; a blank mask in the darkness, void of all expression, the clear, icy eyes darting ceaselessly across the tattered remains of his dreams. His life now steeped in stinking scarlet. Tattered remains of the blood red Liberty flag which perches on an upturned coffin flutter lazily in the sticky breeze_. His Patria. Oh God almighty…_ 'Grantaire', his voice is cold and clear, full of deadly calm as it rings across the silence.

Bodies stir sleepily, limbs grumbling audibly as they unravel into life. You hear Feuilly mutter angrily in his strange language, broken Polish mixed with gutter French somewhere to your left, but don't take any notice of it. Gavroche shifts in his sleep, warm weight pressing down on your heart. From somewhere in the distant city, a door slams shut and a cat screeches a yowling lullaby to the sliver of silver moon suspended in inky velvet blackness.''Jolras?' You look down at the voice, ringing clear from a body that should be lost to the world. The pale face peeps from the folds of your shirt, blue eyes wide and yet not frightened. They are full of a dark determination as he takes in Enjolras kneeling by your shoulder, your alcohol-blurred eyes drinking in the marble Apollo who has come to rest with mere mortals at the barricade. In the flickering shadows you can just make out the conflicting emotions chasing themselves on the blank, white canvas as he silently considers Gavroche.

Fingers tighten instinctively on the jutting shoulder bones protruding from thin fabric because you can't lose him. Lose him like you lost Jehan, the gentle, quiet, understanding poet to the rattling cries of the firing squad. Jehan, who had been trussed up like an animal, large, dark eyes blinded with a scrap of dark material, thin, battered body shivering in the wind, kneeling on the blood soaked cobbles as he cried his final farewell to the Revolution before the smoky fire consumed him and he was lost forever. _'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!_' You remember Courfeyrac's trembling grip tightening on your shaking shoulder as you lean over the safety of the barricade, your brain spiralling into blankness as your eyes desperately try to slam themselves shut against the blood, the pain, the tears pricking painfully at the corners of your eyelids and yet you force yourself to keep watching because… No… Not Jehan… This can't be happening… Not Jehan… You remember a salty waterfall of tears soaking your shoulder as you smell Courfeyrac's musty, smoky smell as his face buried itself into the fabric of your jacket; silent screams forcing themselves into the stunned silence. You want to stop. Stop and reset the board. Pick up the pieces. Rethink your strategies; re plan an offensive, which you know deep down will crumble as soon as you put it to work.

But you have to go on. You glance over at Enjolras and see the sorrow branded like fire in his icy eyes as he slumps down beside you, the fight that has consumed him for so long slowly ebbing out of his bruised, battered body like the tide being whisked away from the shore. Unconsciously, you feel yourself extract a shaking paw from around Gavroche's slumbering form and pass the green glass wine bottle across towards him; only to realise that it has never left your hand. _Of course._ Enjolras never touches liquor. He gazes across at you, bright, cold eyes piercing your fragile soul, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his set mouth and shakes his head. _Not tonight_. On your lap Gavroche stirs sleepily, shifting the tiny ball of muscle, nerves and beating heart across your trembling frame. Fingers clutch at soaked fabric, nails digging into shivering skin. He is the only thing that is keeping you anchored to this blood soaked world of poverty and despair; and for that you are glad. Despite the fact that you have seen eye to eye with these idealistic, hopeful dreamers; you know now that you cannot desert them. Not when so much life hangs in your lap; a beacon of hope slumbering silently in the strange, cold world of dreams. Not when…

You can feel the icy coldness of Enjolras's gaze on your face, the chilly stare piercing your soul in the silence. The one thing he has left. When everything else has left him, fleeing back into the dark safety of oblivion like the people of Paris; people whom he had been ready to risk everything for and how did they repay him? By barring the windows and locking their doors, plunging themselves into the darkness of denial, refusing to believe that this was happening. _What's that noise Maman? Nothing mon chérie, close your eyes. That's it; really it's nothing. It doesn't affect us; go back to sleep. Good boy. Shall I shut your window? The scrape of shutters being slid into place, shutting out the horror, the realism, the sticky fear that clutches the night into a tight, perverted embrace. Leaving you alone. All of you. Alone to die facing a chorus of canons and bayonets, those final words ringing in your ears. 'For certain as our banner flies, the people too must rise!' Empty words. Useless words. Why haven't they come? Don't they believe that a group of university students could save them from the tyrannical injustice of the Bourgeois regime? No. Of course not. They simply take what you give them and then throw it onto the roaring fires of denial, never to be thought of again. _

The sudden injustice of it all rises up your parched throat like vomit, red hot and burning as you force your head into shaking hands, trying to forget. What was the point of it all? The meetings, the demonstrations, the hours slumped over yellowing parchment watching words unravel themselves in long, black spiders dancing through the flickering light of the guttering candle. The cold security of your apartment as you lurch forward, feeling the comforting weight of unknown bodies pressing onto your arms. Cold, calloused hands deftly manoeuvring your swaying body onto a hard bed and pulling coarse cotton over you, forcing you to sleep. 'Sleep it off Grantaire, we'll see you in the morning'. Who had said that? You don't know. It had sounded like Courfeyrac, that playful lilting tease dancing through the stuffy stillness of the cramped, smoke filled rented rooms that you share with Enjolras. Your golden haired, blue eyed Apollo. Words filter weirdly through across the heady silence as the alcoholic fire charges through your brain making rationalisation impossible as you slip deeper into the comforting well of drunken unconsciousness …

Voices bring you stumbling back into reality as you feel the soft weight slowly remove itself from your shivering body. You feel weight on your shoulder, steady surety pressing down on shaking skin, forcing you to look up into the cold, oddly calm face of Courfeyrac; his face now a mask which is blank of all emotion. Only his eyes seem alive, the green irises flecked with amber darting, large pupils glittering with life in the darkness. He doesn't speak, doesn't need to. The silence, stretches, billows and you find yourself looking for Enjolras. A flash of scarlet, blond curls fluttering free from the tattered scrap of black silk ribbon that he uses to keep them off that pale, chiselled face. Bodies begin to slowly unravel themselves from the comforting blackness of sleep as Enjolras moves slowly over the barricade; scrambling up the coffins and shelves, leaping down the gulley's of war chests, side stepping worn out muskets; left lying as tribute to their fallen owners, whispering words of encouragement to his comrades as he moves as silently as a cat over the rubble. You can feel Courfeyrac's eyes on you and turn to face him. His hands are folded across a tattered white shirt, his black waistcoat fraying to ribbons at the base. Auburn hair, the colour of a dying sunset frame a thin, sharp face usually alight with the flames of mischief, now shrouded into seriousness. Hazel eyes scan you, an unsaid question hovering in the heady silence, a question that screams at you, cries out to you: _'Are you with us?'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I'm open to anything and I mean anything- knowing that this is being read is like chocolate to my brain and will hopefully inspire me to update faster! Much love and enjoy x_**


	3. Part III

_**A/N: Here you go! The next installment of Those Final Violet Hours is now officially ready! This is for all the wonderful people who have read, reviewed, followed and favourited this- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Part III

Are you with them? You don't know. It had all seemed so easy back in the candlelit comfort of the Café Musain, when the concept had filtered across the cramped room in a heady haze of talk, smoke and friendship. It had seemed so far away, a desperate dream of Enjolras's to free his Motherland from the tyrannical hands of the greedy, finger sucking Bourgeois regime. A dream that was as far away as the stars, little more than distant diamonds… But now… Now in the suffocating silence of the night, your life hangs in the balance, the silver thread of life slowly fraying as you realise that the scales are set, the die is about to be cast. Surely there is still time to back out, you think desperately in the silence. Still time to slip away now that the Guard are passive and slink, unnoticed into the comforting shadows of the Café. You would be safe, you think desperately, safe in the shadows. You would be able to stay alive, stay in your shadowy, wine filled haunt… Just like before…. But would it be? What if… How could it be? Without them…

_You imagine their ghosts filtering through those once protective walls, eyes dark and accusatory, hollow, dead. Blood splatters adorn walls echoing back the silent screams, the pleading cries of the injured and the dying, until you clap your hands over your ringing ears and fall to your knees, begging for it to stop. Cobbles running a river of stinking, scarlet blood. Corpses littering the street. The barricade, now a sorry ruin of coffins and chairs, pianos and chests full of smashed china, the staccato notes echoing eerily through your head. A blindfolded corpse lies face down on the icy stone, the dark hair stiff with a crown of dried blood and dust. Tentatively you turn the body over, your heart hammering somewhere near your Adam's apple. Fear laps at your throat; fiery, burning heat consuming your fragile self as you stumble blindly back; an uncontrollable torrent of painful, rage-induced tears exploding behind your shattered eyelids. Jehan. The softly spoken, Romantic poet with the large, honey coloured eyes and a voice that could make angels weep… Just a boy, a child of eighteen, the baby of Les Amis de l'ABC… Such a little insignificant life now snuffed out like a candle in a sudden gust of wind… Oh God… Jehan whose eyes are blind behind the scrap of material which you rip off, because you can't bear it, you have to know, have to make sure… Jehan who turns into Enjolras, whose neck is adorned with a dark necklace of bullet wounds, all evenly placed across skin which is as white and smooth as the Madonna's. Apollo, whose golden curls are sullied black with dirt; blue eyes blank, unseeing, the final flames of passionate adoration for Patria snuffed out at last. No… Not Apollo… No… NO! _

_You shake the body, chest convulsing with suppressed sobs, desperately trying to rekindle the flickering flame of life, but still it changes… Combeferre, spectacles perched perilously on the end of his nose and all you want him to do is reach a large, delicate hand up and push them further out of harm's way … Courfeyrac, the ghost of a last laugh still tugging at frozen lips, his inky blue cravat sullied to a dull brown with his scarlet sacrifice… Feuilly, whose jaw had been blown apart and all that is left is a bloody, gaping mess… Marius, ink blue eyes pale and distant, the long, nimble, ink stained fingers still at last, the dreaming Bonapartist gone at last to heaven, congealed scarlet trickling down from a gash on his forehead. The dark haired girl with the large pleading eyes and scrabbling hands, her hair tumbling in a waterfall of blood soaked, inky ebony from a tattered cap… Little Gavroche… The mop of blond hair stiff with blood, the bullet wound at his chest still bleeding, fresh, hot, stinking scarlet blood as you desperately try to hold him, icy lips brushing a marble forehead, his life blood soaking through the soft pads of your trembling fingers, trickling sickingly down your nerveless hands… A fleeting life… No… No… No! NO! Bahorel… His large, plain face and broken nose bloody and bruised beyond recognition, dark eyes staring blindly at a sky he cannot see… Bossuet, bald head sticky with a jaunty revolutionary's cap of scarlet blood, eyes blank, hollow, accusatory… Joly's hands reaching up to you in plaintive supplication for a world that had been cruelly wrenched from his scrabbling, snatching grasp… 'You let me die Grantaire and you did nothing. You sat in that drunken stupor and did nothing! You filthy hypocrite, you know how much Enjolras believed in you… You let us die, all of us. It's your fault. All your fault.' … No… Never again… Let me wake up… No! Please… No… I didn't… Please… Let me wake up… Let this be a dream, a drunken nightmare… Please… But he was changing, changing so quickly that you can hardly make it out… Enjolras… NO! Not Enjolras… Please Apollo… Please wake up… Please… 'You do not believe in anything. You do not believe in the cause, in your fellow men. Believe in them, wine case! Believe in me!' His eyes have lost that icy spark and are dark and hollow, full of such contemptuous hatred that makes your blood run cold. You know that look… No Enjolras… Please… I didn't… Please don't… I do believe in you… I do… I just… _

'GRANTAIRE!' A name shatters the silence, forcing itself through your blood soaked terror, shaking, shuddering with supressed emotion… The world returns in pieces. Sweat. Voices. Footsteps thundering on wooden floorboards slick with wine and blood and… Too loud… The feeling of being forced into a tight space with no way out. Too close. Capable hands shaking a large, useless body… A hot, heavy tongue lolling uselessly in a barren mouth… Flickering faces hover eerily above your shattered eyelids, pale faces tight with fear. 'R?' Who was that? Enjolras? 'Ferre? Joly? 'Feyrac? Jehan? No… Not Jehan… Jehan was… Jehan… A chorus of bayonets glittering in the cool, June dawn… Painfully, you turn your head and blink back the building blankness that is tugging enticingly at the corners of your brain, willing you to fall back into the comforting blackness. Falling into a warm, supported embrace as capable hands slowly work their way around you, fingers shaking slightly as they weave unknown, intricate patterns over your shivering skin. Who is doing this to you? You don't know. Desperately, you try to turn your head but strong hands grip it, forcing it to stay in place. 'Don't move Grantaire', a calm, deep voice, that is tinged with the thin, desperate note of anxiety tells you firmly. Combeferre? But 'Ferre was on the barricade with Bahorel and the old man from earlier, wasn't he? Trying to reason with Marius… Then why is he here? It doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense anymore…

You feel your head loll painfully into nothingness, as if your neck cannot support its weight. Hands grip you, hold you, support you as you could never support them, forcing you to stay still, to stay awake_. Little do you know that it will soon be you supporting them, soon be you who will be clutching at an ice cold, blood stained palm as you stare into the dark chorus of the firing squad; standing alone in the upstairs room of the Café with only the ghosts of your friends and Enjolras's ragged, jarring breaths on your cheek to keep you from falling. A room that holds so many memories that have been obliterated in the heat of the moment as you stumbled blindly towards his battered body, clutching the tattered flag of liberty in his fist; eyes cold and clear as Apollo watches Dionysus stumble silently towards him in a blur of alcohol and fear that has intoxified you worse than any drink, heart thumping the jarring rhythm of a death march, waiting. A flag is raised… A scrap of blood soaked, scarlet fabric that is a final tribute to the fallen revolution. A final tribute to the dead who are barred from your sight but who you know are there. A shaking, blood soaked hand fumbling for the security of another's touch and you squeeze painfully back, never wanting to let go… A final tribute to France, to Patria, to all those candlelit hours spent hunched over yellowing parchment, eyes strained in the flickering candlelight as you watch his eyes scan over countless maps and charts, the spidery letters dancing in a blur of black on yellowing parchment that rolls and spills out onto the floor. A final tribute to a lost life. Without warning, Jehan's words come back to you, softly floating on air that is thick with the stench of death, fear, shock and blood. Vive la France! Vive la Republic!_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticism is like chocolate to my brain and will make me update this faster regardless of the fact that I really should be revising for public exams in June! Much love and enjoy x_**


	4. Part IV

_**A/N: Another chapter for all you amazing reviewers, followers and people who give up their time to give this story a look - thank you! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Part IV

A flash of black silk ribbon streaks across the blurred line of your immediate vision and flickers out of sight. Voices. You can't hear what's being said. Something about glass, but you can't think what glass has got to do with anything. Cold, blue eyes filled a dark, penetrating sadness mixed with white hot, scalding fear that makes your heart twists painfully in your chest. You have never seen him like this. Not your marble Apollo. He is always so calm, angry sometimes but never like this. Never afraid and it frightens you. The hot headed Enjolras you know is complicated on a normal day but this pale imitation, this shadow… This face… This mask of fearful terror… You don't like it. 'Jol… 'pollo…Please…' The words rasp painfully against your mouth, as if you haven't spoken for hours. Words that fall from parched lips, hovering the sticky, summer air and then fall, crashing into oblivion.

'Ssh Grantaire, don't speak. You've got glass in your hair, idiot,' Bahorel. Combeferre. Joly. Marius. Bossuet. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Gavroche. Enjolras. Your Apollo. The feeling of something cold being forced down your throat as hard, capable hands hold your head, forcing you to swallow. You do so reluctantly, feeling the gushing liquid surge down a throat that feels as if it has been consumed by itchy fire that refuses to be extinguished. You want to see Enjolras. No, need to see Enjolras. Make sure that this isn't a dream. _Make sure that he isn't wearing a necklace of dark, gaping, weeping bullet wounds, that his eyes are still bright with the flickering flames of revolution, that his face isn't a bloody mask…_ A sharp prick of pain explodes through your scalp and a mumbled apology brings you back into reality as a hand grips your shivering shoulder, unheeded words washing over you. Words, endless words that make no sense…

'It's alright wine case, ssh…' The voice is high pitched, with a childish quality that you can't quite place. Who… Who would call you 'wine case' of all your stupid nicknames dreamt up by the Amis? A small, hot paw that is slick with sweat creeps slowly into yours and you squeeze with all the strength you can muster; thinking, hoping that it is Gavroche. You imagine the pale, elfish face hovering above your own and smile to yourself, smiling past the pain. If Gavroche is here then… then everything is all right…

'Grantaire? Can you hear me?' Another voice; deeper but still with that childish lilt tugging faintly at it starts, a voice full of dark panic, trembling, trying to remain steady. _Yes Joly. Yes, you're not dead. I'm dreaming. I dreamt you died; tell me it was just a dream, just a stupid, drunken dream. I promise I won't drink any more. I promise! Don't leave me! Please, I can't… Please Apollo, I'm sorry…_ Desperately, you try to open your eyes, open them and chase away the dark demons hounding your blood soaked thoughts. Voices press down on you; pale, blurred faces swimming in and out of your distorted vision. Combeferre's eyes are unnaturally large behind misty spectacles and Joly who is usually so composed looks like he is on the verge of tears. Your head swivels painfully, desperately trying to see him, trying to tell yourself that he is here, that he is not dead. The pressure in your hand increases, tiny finger nails digging painfully into your palms. Gavroche. His bright blue eyes are swimming with tears as he buries his head in your shoulder and sobs without restraint; fingers clutching at your shirt, refusing to let you go. You blink and relax into his weight, eyes still scanning for him. _A flash of golden curls. A whisper of white cotton, black silk…_ The sound of wood crashing onto the cobbled pavement, a muffled shout of pain and the soft pad of boots as someone approaches. A hand tightens on your shoulder and is released again as a body rises. Whispered voices, tight with panic, the unknown fear tangible in the heady stillness… What's happening? You don't know. Why don't you know? You feel something cold being pressed into your hand and shaking hands desperately trying to prise Gavroche's trembling frame from you, but he doesn't let go. You don't want him to because… because if he does… If he leaves you… 'Gavroche? Gavroche, _please_! You can't stay here; you need to get back into the Café… Get out of it… It's too dangerous …please… please Gavroche… please 'roche!' He doesn't let go, but clings on tighter, nails digging like knives into the taut flesh of your neck, desperate for the security of anothers' touch.

Whether he'll ever let go, you don't know. You don't want him to. Don't want to lose him to the confused chaos that you are sure will fall upon this deadly calm night like a summer storm upon a wheat field. 'Grantaire, please; we've got to get him out of here! Now!' Courfeyrac's voice is trembling with fear as he desperately tries to wrench the little gamin's ice like fingers from around your neck. He clings on regardless, pricks of pain exploding up the taught tendons of your neck as he buries his face into your shoulder-blade, refusing to accept that if he wants to get out of this alive, he has to get out now, before it is too late. Voices spill out over your head, but the words don't make sense. Silently, you struggle to your feet; feeling the silent screams of your calves as they unravel themselves into a standing position. You can almost taste the fear that is radiating from Courfeyrac as he watches you with wide eyes, moving in slow silence back to Café, desperately trying to keep Gavroche's silently protesting body from scrambling out of your sweaty grip.

Each step seems to last a lifetime as you move painfully slowly towards the dark doorway of the Café; the glittering light of the guttering lanterns that Combeferre has ordered to be lit seeming as distant as stars. Back to the Café where that Inspector stands tied to the doorframe, silently surveying the steadily unravelling chaos with an unnerving calmness glittering in his cold grey eyes. What are you going to do with him? You don't know, but Combeferre will. Combeferre always knows. You'll ask him when this night from hell is over… _You imagine his eyebrows knitting together above his wire framed spectacles, the large dark eyes behind the lenses slightly unfocused; as if he is lost in an unknown land as he ponders the large, plain, heavy face; calculations and conclusions speeding like wildfire across his dark, elegant face, arms folded across his chest in a pose of defiant deliberation as he surveys the mans' fate; weighing up the scales, testing the die in elegant, well-practiced hands before that final, deciding throw._

In your arms Gavroche struggles, desperately trying to escape your grip; his blonde head turned plaintively towards the top of the barricade where Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius, Bahorel and the grey haired man from earlier are assembling, muskets shouldered. Below them, you can just make out the profiles of Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet scrambling up to join their compatriots; all taking their allotted places that somehow have been decided without your knowledge. Someone is missing though. Desperately you rack your brain, but your thoughts are sluggish and unresponsive until they finally fall on Jehan. _Jean Provaire; the quiet, thoughtful, dreaming poet with long nimble fingers that were forever stained with the blue-black blood of ink, whose eyes were constantly working around his surroundings, looking for a new stimulus to satisfy his ferociously hungry Muse._ But he is not there. Why isn't he there_? 'Because he's dead' _a sly voice says quietly in the dark recesses of your brain_. 'And you'll follow and Enjolras and Gavroche; they all will. They'll follow him over the edge like beasts going into the slaughter-house and then where will you be?'_

_No… Don't think like that Grantaire…_ Desperately you try to shake the voice away, but it clings on, digging into your steadily crumbling sanity like mould, slowly eating you up from the inside. How you wish you could reset the clock! Survey the chessboard of life with new, awoken eyes. Pick up the cast die, sweep off the pieces, put them away and rethink… Rebuild it all again… It could be so different and yet you deep down that it can't. Fate has already tightened the threads of all your little lives and there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing.

'Do you really think that you will be able to save them? The voice continues to torment you and there is nothing you can do about it, except listen and wait; wishing for it to be over. All of it. '_You are nothing compared to them. Nothing. You are worthless Grantaire. A worthless drunken lowlife who deserves to die…our little lives don't count at all! Do you really think that you will be able to save them?'_ No… Please… Make it stop… Please… But the voice continues to torment you and there is nothing you can do about it, except listen and wait; wishing for it to be over. All of it. _'Worthless. Useless. Downtrodden parasite. Worthless, cynical, drunken lowlife. What use can you be to these pure, bright souls who dream of freedom for all men? You are nothing. Nothing compared to them. What will happen if they leave you? Leave you all alone. Ah Grantaire, what a joy it is to be loved! But you are not. Who would love you? The drunken cynic? Who will care for you if they die? If they leave you?' _No… Please… Please make it stop… I didn't… Please… They won't... They can't... Please...

The sound of breaking glass shatters the heady, oppressive silence as Bossuet's deep, gravelly voice omits a string of colourful curses as he drags his tattered trouser leg up out of harm's way to assemble with his brothers. _Brothers in life, brothers in death._ You silently, desperately wish that it wasn't so, that by some miracle you could all get out this alive but you know that this isn't the case. How can it be? You are not trained like the National Guardsmen who lie in wait in the shadows of the street. You have precious few weapons and ammunition and the supplies you do have are ruined by the rain. And yet they continue to assemble in battle formation. Assembling like lead soldiers ready to be knocked over by the flying fist of a careless child, you think bitterly in the silently echoing silence as Gavroche continues to squirm furiously; a tiny ball of unstoppable energy, fighting to be released. 'Please Grantaire?' _No 'roche, please no… Don't go… I can't lose you, I won't lose you_!

His voice rings clear out of the silence and makes you cast a worried glance around as you grip his sides, pressing his trembling frame close to yours; refusing to believe that this could be the end… You choke back a sob as you look down at the pale, determined face, the large almond-shaped eyes the colour of calm water, the smattering of freckles caressing the bridge of his slightly upturned nose as he gazes at you, his eyes huge with confusion and yet filled with such dark determination that it makes your heart twist. You know what he is going to do and you can't let him… you can't! Sharp fingernails dig painfully into your shoulder as he twists himself right round to get a clearer view of the terror that is slowly unravelling at the top of the barricade. _Dreams being slowly unpicked until they are nothing but frayed scarlet threads blowing pitifully in the wind… Shouts… Screams… The crackle of gunfire shattering the still night air…_

**_A/N: Yes, I know it's a cliffhanger but it will make sense, trust me! This may be my last update for this week because I have a LOAD of revision to do as well as a 50 marks Classics essay to write (why, oh why did I chose 3 essay subjects for my A-Levels?!) Please feel free to read and review - suggestions, comments and constructive criticism are my virtual chocolate at the moment! Much love and enjoy x_**


	5. Part V

_**A/N: Here you go! Another chapter for all you wonderful people (especially Sarahbob) who have stuck with this story; you have no idea how much it means to me to think that this is appreciated! This chapter was impossibly hard to edit and at some points had to be rewritten so please forgive my inadequacies as an editor if this doesn't live up to your high expectations! Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x **_

Part V

_Bodies crashing onto the rubble of the barricade…_ You can't look. You don't want Gavroche to look either but as soon as you reach up to grip the trembling chin, he yanks it away in an expression of desperate defiance, huge eyes glued on the flickering torches that light your friends' graves. _No. Not graves. Not yet. Please not yet… Yells… Please… _ Short, sharp commands shattering the sticky stillness as Fate slowly begins her perverted rounds, silently snapping each fraying silver thread of life that hang in the balance between her merciless shears. Your friends… Your first and best friends…

_Enjolras. Your godlike, golden haired Apollo. Apollo with his bright blue eyes blazing with the passionate flames of hope for his beloved Patria as he rallies the people to his scarlet standard. A halo of golden curls framing a pale, marble face as the God comes to rest with mere mortals; full of hopeful determination that one day the people of France will be able to taste the sweet wine of freedom._

_Combeferre. The calm, confident medical student who wore glasses and could write a persuasive pamphlet better than anyone you knew. The dark haired, dark eyed boy who tended war wounds without a second glance whilst debating with Enjolras about Robespierre's conflicts with Desmoulins and Danton; eyes alight with an almost feverish desire to delve deeper into your leaders' treasure trove of knowledge._

_Marius. The lovesick Bonapartist who you had teased unmercifully in the Café Musain much to Enjolras's annoyance back in the good old days which now seem to have belonged to another, distant age that is shrouded in the dark clouds of oblivion. The Bonapartist with the nimble fingers and wide, scared eyes as he tried to convince Enjolras that Napoleon's ideals should be cherished and revered by the people, all the while knowing that his argument is visibly withering under Apollo's silent, icy stare. _

_Joly. The medical student who studied beside Combeferre and who wrung his hands in anxiety for Gavroche when he brought Enjolras the latest figures of the influenza epidemic that had swept the streets of Paris last November like wildfire. Joly with his endearing expression of worry etched like ink on his fine, dark features as he debated with Bossuet about going out without at least two pairs of socks and a pair of good boots._

_Bossuet. Bossuet with his bright eyes and raucous laughter as he broke yet another of Nicolette's best glasses whilst beating Jehan at dominos. Bossuet with his laughing smile as he tried to reason with Joly that under no circumstances could he have contracted measles and whooping cough in just one evening whilst debating with Feuilly on the meaning of luck._

_Bahorel. The plain, olive skinned labourer with his broken nose and silent, determined love for his friends as he stumbled through the door of the Musain, bloody and bruised after yet another fight with Montparnasse or one of the other prowlers who stalked the streets of San Michel, shrouded by the thick invisibility cloak of darkness and had to be forced into a chair by Combeferre after he had made sure that all the Amis were safe. Bahorel with his deep, infectious laugh that rumbled through the packed room that stank of gunpowder, ink, sweat and friendship as he piggybacked Gavroche over to Enjolras's table with the latest news from the streets._

_Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac with his laughing smile and twinkling hazel eyes alight with the flickering, leaping flames of mischief. Courfeyrac the dandy with his love of women and wine, the centre to Les Amis de l'ABC. He is your jester, your centre; the glue that keeps the group together as he teases Marius about his latest girl; trying to guess her name with little success whilst writing one of his lawyers papers by the guttering light of a flickering candle._

_Feuilly. Feuilly, the exhausted fan maker who adored Poland and history, sitting in a shadowy corner absentmindedly sketching out a new design on a scrap of parchment, whilst silently drinking up every word that fell from Enjolras's virgin lips as he preached from the nearest table, eyes alight with pride and devotion for Patria as he explained his dreams for the upcoming revolution; hands trembling slightly as he tried desperately to conceal his infectious excitement which enfolded the room in its feverish embrace of heady anticipation. _

_Jehan. Jehan, the softly spoken Romantic poet with the huge, honey coloured eyes alight with the flames of his ever hungry Muse as he sat hunched over a scrap of parchment, scribbling furiously. A boy, a child of eighteen; the baby of the revolutionary dreamers who intoxicate your mind with their plans for the bright, white land of freedom. Jehan who was now a blank faced, blindfolded corpse left at the mercy of the dogs and the carrion crows out in the wilderness separating the two barricades. Such a little, insignificant life snuffed out before it had had a change to ignite and burn… _

_Gavroche. Gavroche, the blonde haired, blue eyed gamin who is Enjolras's scout on the streets of Paris; the little street rat who knew more about the city than many of the Bourgeois. Gavroche with his wicked, gappy toothed grin which could light up even the darkest of meetings when he popped his mop of dirty golden curls round the door to relay the latest news from the streets. Enjolras's scout of the streets of Paris, the leader of the raggedy gamins who crowd round him as if he is a God, a master puppeteer in the continuous drama that is Paris. What will happen to them if he leaves you? Leaves them, those poor thieving gamins with little else to live for; no family, no home save for what they can steal and scrape together under his watchful gaze. He is their master, their father, their keeper up in the dark crevices of the Bastille Elephant; what will they do without him? No. Don't think about that yet. It's not over…_

You remember the pride glittering in Courfeyrac's eyes as he pinned the newest tricolour cockade onto the gamin's tattered blue jacket, two sizes too big for him as Enjolras lifted him onto the table to a round of deafening applause. How you wish you could go back in time and live it all again! But you can't. You are trapped, trapped in a blood soaked reality and however hard you struggle to free yourself, you know deep down that you will never truly be free.

Without warning you feel a pint-sized bundle of fury wriggling free from your clutching grip… dropping… falling… _No Gavroche! NO!_ But he is gone before you can summon the words to call him back into the safety of oblivion, sprinting away into darkness, sprinting away into death… No… No…No! Out of the corner of your terrified eyes you see a splash of bright blue disappearing into the underbelly of the barricade, slipping and ducking through the piled up rubble; neatly side stepping Feuilly who starts jerkily as the quivering body brushes past him as he desperately tries to lunge for the agile ball of life scrambling just out of his reach and up onto a battered chest of drawers, red paint chipped and smudged with age and drops like a stone into the cold, blank space that separates the barricade from the outside world. _No… No… Please… No…_ _A flicker of blonde curls; a gappy, determined grin …_

You can't breathe and yet your lungs keep screaming for oxygen as you turn blindly back towards the barricade only to hear Courfeyrac's voice tight with panic as he peers out from his position next to Marius, half hidden behind the wheels of an upturned carriage: 'Gavroche? Gavroche! Get back 'roche! It's dangerous…' You feel your eyes slip shut in despair as you find yourself making your way blindly towards the auditorium guided only by the continuous, confused mêlée of voices above you. Sweat erupts like lava on the back of your palms, but you hardly feel the ice cold moisture drowning you in its sickly scent. Vomit surges up your throat, white hot and burning but you choke it back, hardly daring to breathe as your feet hit the sharp corner of some unknown chest that forms the first foothold on this mountain of rubble.

And then you hear it. Amid the yelling, shouting voices fuelled by Courfeyrac's half crazed, choked chant of ''roche! Come back…. Come back…' and the surge of broken bodies scrambling up and over the barricade to reach their mascot, you hear it. A high, sweet, alto voice dancing above the oppressive stench of sweat and gunpowder, soaring over the pale dove grey sky flecked with pale pink and burnished amber that awakens the slumbering city of Paris. _'Little people know when little peoples fight…_' Somehow you find yourself crouched painfully beside Combeferre, eyes alight with fear behind his spectacles. You can almost feel the heat of anticipation radiating from his body as he silently surveys the steadily unravelling chaos, knowing deep down that nothing can save you now. Nothing. If Gavroche…

'Gavroche, get back! That's an order!' Enjolras's voice; which is usually full of icy calmness is marred with a dark undercurrent of unrestrained alarm as it cuts through the confused panic like a knife slashing through cloth. He is standing in a small dent of rubble, surveying the scene with wide eyes that are full of a terrifying dark anxiety as he silently watches his dreams unravel uncontrollably before his eyes until they are little more than scraps of scarlet fluttering in the stagnant breeze. As you watch him, you see the corners of his mouth tighten as he fights to keep his emotions in check as you watch in hopeless desperation as the gamin spares one, lingering glance up at the pale, terrified faces staring in utter despair over the edge of the barricade. Beside you, you hear Combeferre utter a low moan of despair as in a flash of blonde curls and winning smile full of gappy teeth, Gavroche is gone.

The guide buries his head into your shoulder as you watch through eyes blinded by unshed tears, hardly daring to breathe; feeling 'Ferre's ragged, sobbing breathes soaking your shirt. On your other side, Joly is trying desperately to restrain a sobbing Courfeyrac who is frantically trying to reach the spot where the gamin vanished, throwing his whole body against his friend to try and throw him off as he tries to climb an overturned carriage wheel. He almost manages it, but is forced back by Feuilly who grabs his other elbow and yanks him back so all three stumble over the jutting corner and hit the dark pit of an upturned boudoir. Their bodies land heavily on the thin, delicate glass panels that guard the delicate blue painted Delft china within. Glass tinkles, slicing through cotton, through skin, but the external pain is nothing to the roaring inferno of internal terror that has ignited within each of you. Joly reappears with a jagged sliver of scarlet slicing his cheek, his hands still locked around Courfeyrac's upper arm in a desperate attempt to pacify him. 'No 'Feyrac!' Feuilly wrestles with him, frantically trying to return him to the safety of oblivion; but he stubbornly refuses, relentlessly throwing himself against the two bodies barely holding him back, dark eyes blinded by tears as he tries to reach the cold, clear open space and the waiting, expectant lines of sleeping guards into which Gavroche has disappeared.

He struggles fruitlessly against their combined weight, desperately trying to get up; dark eyes wide with pain and fright; like a horse trapped under an upturned carriage, completely paralysed by fear and shock. Desperately he tries again, roaring in pain and fear for the little gamin who has disappeared as quickly as a rainbow amid the cold, grey, storm-tossed sky. Your brain goes blank. Time stands still. The world is suddenly and entirely enveloped in a deathly silence; every second, every frantic thump of terrified hearts lasting a thousand years as nine petrified pairs of eyes scan the cavonous abyss; waiting, wishing for something to happen. Anything. _For that mop of blonde hair to reappear from somewhere, to tell you that everything is all right, that all is not lost…_ But instead the only thing you can hear is the rapid thumping of your heart and Combeferre's breathing coming out in shallow, ragged gasps as he throws an arm around your shoulder, clutching at you as if he were a drowning sailor clinging onto a piece of drift wood, desperately trying not to be swept away in the roaring tempest of panicked fear that has consumed you so completly and refuses to let you go. You try to relax into his weight, but find that you can't. Your whole body is tense with anticipation as your eyes, so recently smudged by the comforting unreality of alcohol flicker over the scene, taking in everything in painful clarity; silently praying that this is nothing more than a drunken nightmare and you will wake up… _You've got to wake up… _

And then you see it. A flash of dark blue, slashed with the white sash of the National Guard, rising swiftly above the safety of the shadows. _A face, a dark face that is full of hard, almost inhumane dislike leers back at you as your brain screams a warning… The long, cold darkness of a gun barrel rises with agonising slowness… No… No… This isn't happening… Gavroche! Where is Gavroche? _ You can feel the unbearable heat rising in steady spirals as Combeferre grips your shoulder; short sharp nails digging painfully into your skin as he desperately tries to locate the tattered blue jacket or the angelic mop of dirty blonde hair of the gamin who has vanished completley into the oblivion of the outside world.

Tear filled eyes follow his gaze, your heart hammering painfully somewhere near your Adam's apple. For the second time in you don't know how long, time stands still and all you can hear are the frantic, desperate beating of nine hearts pounding through the silence. Above you can almost taste the waves of unbearable tension rolling off Enjolras, Bahorel and for some strange reason Bossuet although you don't understand how he managed to join them; as they survey the situation like vultures high on their perches, biding their time, planning their next strategy. _If they even get the chance to put a new strategy into place you think in bitter desperation…_ _And all around you the heat continues to rise in waves; that sticky, unbearable June heat that has been in with the rain, a million years ago…_

_The flickering flash of a tricolour cockade dancing on a chest puffed out in childish pride. A sweet, high, alto voice flies above the heat filled tension like a swallow; soaring and diving above the sticky, suffocating, windless earth with such innocent joy that you have to blink back tears of happiness, clinging desperately to Combeferre's shivering frame. 'We may look easy pickings, but we've got some bite!' No… Gavroche… Come back… Please… We need you… _

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review- constructive criticisms, suggestions etc are like my virtual chocolate at the moment! Much love and enjoy x _**


	6. Part VI

_**A/N: A short note before I launch into why I don't own Les Miserables and why this has taken so long to be updated: the next few chapters are horribly painful; both to read and to write (I cried when I finished this so...) so due to the amount of blood, screaming, shouting and vast volume of tears being shed later on (I won't give anything away just yet- but you have been warned), this story has been changed to a T which should hopefully cover my back! **_

_**I am really, really sorry for the delay in posting this chapter but I have been and still am up to my ears in timed essays and revision at the moment- damn A-Levels- damn you! This is for all the wonderful people who have stuck with this, you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables- please don't sue me!**_

_** Much love and enjoy x**_

Part VI

A short, sharp shot shatters the silence. You barely have time to blink before you see a body falling; tiny, dirt spattered hands filled with ammunition scrabbling to break the crushing impact as he crashes to the ground, thoroughly winded; the fight slowly ebbing out of his broken body in a steady stream of stinking scarlet as the bullet lodges itself firmly above his left lung_. No… No! Not Gavroche… This isn't happening; this can't be happening! No… Tell me I'm dreaming… Tell me that this just another nightmare and I'll wake up… Just another drunken nightmare and I've got to wake up… This isn't happening… _A scream rises rapidly to your throat, a bloody, inhuman cry of anguish that you don't bother to restrain. It rips through your screaming self, searing your mouth with ice cold fire as you feel yourself lunge for the top of the barricade; your body fighting the never ending blockade of rubble that seems to grow even larger as you try to climb, hands slick with icy sweat as they slip and scrabble over the rubble, heart hammering painfully in your chest. _Not Gavroche. Please. Not Gavroche. Please…_ Bodies press down on you, blocking you as you desperately try to reach him.

'Grantaire! Courfeyrac! No!' You don't register the voice piercing the cloud of blood soaked terror that has suddenly overwhelmed you; don't feel 'Feyrac's weight pressing against you as you scrabble over an upturned table that separates you from the top of the barricade, don't even see the arm that is thrown back by an unknown body to stop you from going over the edge. And yet, all you see is Gavroche. The tiny ball of fiery, hopeful life falling, crashing down to Earth and you know it is your fault._ All your fault. If you hadn't… If you had just… _Dimly, you see the callouses lining the scarred skin as the hand continues to shake uncontrollably; see the faint shadows of paint caressing the lightly freckled palm and realise with a jolt that it is Feuilly. Feuilly, who is kneeling on a broken bookshelf; his whole being shaking with supressed sobs as an outstretched hand snatches at air; fingers groping, grasping for the security of another's touch.

You feel the shaking pressure of a trembling hand gripping your shoulder; short nails digging painfully into your shirt. Somehow you find the strength to turn your head to try and reassure whoever it is, only to find Courfeyrac's salt soaked face gazing at you in silent, disbelieving horror; refusing to believe that this is happening. His face is deathly pale, his large, hazel eyes wide and filled with such undiluted terror that you can feel the heat radiating from his pupils which are little more than dark specks amid a sea of autumn brown. His breath comes out in ragged, choking gasps; harsh and broken on your cheek as you turn back… Turn back only to see the tiny bundle of hope and life struggling resolutely to his feet, eyes flickering shut with a mixture of pain and exhaustion as he tries to stand, stumbling slowly towards the safety of the barricade and his brothers… His guardians…

''Roche? Gavroche!' Desperately you shuffle closer to the edge of your bookshelf; the only thing that is protecting you from the cold horror of the outside world and hold out a trembling hand to him. Blue eyes flicker with the flames of recognition, flicker and fail; clouded with the extent of the pain that is coursing through his battered, bleeding body; slowly sapping every last particle of strength away until he is nothing but a broken, bloody shell … _No… Don't think like that…_ 'roche, please!' You need to get him out of here. You need to get him to the dark, candlelit safety of the upstairs room of the Café Musain, get Joly or Combeferre to tend to his wounds and yet time runs on unheeded like sand slipping through cupped hands. _It is too late… No… It will not be too late… It can't be… You've still got time, haven't you? Surely… Please… _

''taire?' The voice is little more than a choked whisper, thick with the metallic stink of blood and pain as he tries to lift his head. Your name flutters from broken, bloody lips, flutters and falls as he bites his tongue to stop himself from crying out as the purity of the pain envelopes him once more and all you want to do is hold him, embrace him; feel the fluttering heartbeat once again pounding resolutely against your own, wipe away the salty pain that is coursing down his pale, pinched face as he struggles to stand and yet… _Oh 'Roche… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…_

'He's coming Gavroche. Try and come a bit closer, we can't really reach you from here. That's it… Keep going, we'll get you… don't worry… I've got you… It's alright…' You shuffle closer to Feuilly whose grating voice mixed with soft hints of Polish is filled with such tender compassion for the gamin as he leans further over a broken chest of drawers and extends a trembling hand, the thick fingers clutching and snatching on air as Gavroche hobbles painfully towards the dark warmth of safety; his eyes flickering shut with the extent of the pain as it consumes him once more in an icy, perverted embrace and refuses to let him go.

'_You should never a kick a dog... because it's just a pup'_, the words are clipped and broken as they tumble in a disjointed heap as he shuffles slowly towards you, cradling the soaked pile of stolen ammunition to his chest like a girl cradling a poppet doll. _He is close, so close, if he just…_ Courfeyrac's hand freezes on your shoulder as you lean further over the barricade, trying to keep your expression neutral; not wanting to betray the fear that has engulfed you like iced fire, fear that is slowly incinerating every scrap of sanity that still clings to your shattered self. Behind you, you can hear the shuffling scrambles of the others as they struggle up the never ending mound of rubble; hearts hammering, breath choked and broken as bodies are forced back, voices ringing through the deathly silence; calling, crying for the their mascot, their little brother; knowing all too well that it is too late.

'Gavroche! Move!' Just in time you see Feuilly's head shoot up in alarm as your heart leaps painfully into your barren mouth and settles there, each throbbing iamb seeming to last a lifetime as you follow Marius's terrified cry, refusing to believe what you know it is, what you desperately hope it isn't. _No… No…No!_ A National Guardsman, a razor straight silhouette against the dark mound of the houses barring the street stands so quickly that he is merely a blur of navy blue and white against the blank backdrop of the crumbling tenement building. A musket waits, cocked and ready, resting on his shoulder, the catch off; the barrel expectant, hungry for blood. _'The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France!'_ The words echo eerily through your head as your brain takes it in with agonizing slowness and you shake it desperately, not wanting to believe that they will come true. They can't! They… No… Your shattered eyes desperately try to slam themselves shut against the pain but you force them open. You owe that much to him, the blonde haired, blue eyed gamin, that beacon of hopeful life which is the only thing keeping you bound to this blood soaked world of poverty and despair.

'Gavroche, get out of the way!_' But he can't. He's wounded… He can barely breathe, let alone run… Someone needs to go down there… Someone… Anyone…Please..._ Marius's cry is shattered by the resounding shot that slices through the silence with such razor sharp ferocity that you barely have time to think. _A tiny, pleading cry… A scream… A body falling…_ An animalistic roar of disbelieving pain and loss that rips through your eardrums like a knife slicing through skin as Courfeyrac launches his whole weight at the edge of the barricade, scrabbling desperately, howling like a wounded dog as his feet stumble and slip over the damp mound of rubble that blocks his way. The screams fill your ears, a dark mass of words pressing painfully down on you as you desperately try to follow the dark haired centre who is still trying to clamber over the barricade, despite the fact that both Combeferre and Feuilly are trying to hold both of you back, clinging onto your arms, trying desperately to prevent you from running headfirst into an early death. You try to shake them off, try to wrench the thick, clutching fingers from your sleeves but they continue to hold you, forcing you to remain in the safety of oblivion. Why are they doing this to you? You don't know. You know nothing anymore apart from the thick, dark cloud of pain, fear and grief that has enveloped you once more and refuses to let you go, however hard you struggle to throw it off.

You hear it then. Above the panicked shouts and Courfeyrac's howling cries of grief, it comes to you once more; staccato notes clipped and broken with pain, filtering softly through the blood soaked sky. _'So you'd better run for cover, till the pup…'_

_No 'roche… Please… No… Please hold on… Please… I'm coming… It'll be alright… Just hold on… I'm coming… It'll be alright… Please hold on… _

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review- comments, suggestions, questions and constructive critcisims are my virtual chocolate at the moment! Much love and enjoy x_**


	7. Part VII

_**A/N: At last, at long last I am able to give you the last installement of Those Final Violet Hours! This is for all the wonderful people who have stuck to this story and given up their time to read, review, favourite and follow- I thank you from the bottom of my heart because I know that I would have stopped a long time ago had it not been for your continued support! Thank you, you are all amazing and I love you; I really, really do!**_

_**As always: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Part VII

You find yourself out in the open, away from the barricade. You are crouched in the shadows of one of the tenement buildings, clinging onto the slowly crumbling stonework as if it is the only thing that is keeping you anchored to this world of blood soaked pain and hatred_. A world where children die unheeded, unloved… A world where… No! No… Don't think about that yet… _'Gavroche? 'Roche, can you hear me?_' _There is no reply. Nothing to tell you that the fiery ball of life is still burning, that Fate has not thought it her perverse duty to snap the silver thread before its' time. _ Why? Why is there no reply? No… Surely not… Please God… Please… _Your voice breaks; the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm your shattered soul as you crouch in the oppressive silence, waiting. A silence that presses down on you in a mixture of sticky heat, soft rain and the icy, acidic blood of tears that stream unchecked down your face as you inch towards him; listening to the ragged, jarring iambs of your heart; hoping, praying that this is not the end.

Every footstep seems to last a lifetime as you force yourself to keep moving, keep living because he needs you to be strong for him… 'Gavroche?' Behind you, you can just make out 'Feyrac's sobbing, strangled cries and the screams of the others as they try to reason with him, reason with you, try to force you back in the dark safety of oblivion…

But you don't want to go back. You can't go back. Not now. Not when so much is at stake and it is your fault… All your fault… Out of the corner of your eye you can just make out the silhouette of the National Guardsman, standing motionless in the shadowy dawn, his musket cocked again, ready to fire. Sudden, unbidden fear laps at your throat but you choke it back, forcing down the icy fire that is threatening to consume you as you move silently through the desert wasteland that separates the two barricades. He stands, waiting; his pale, thin face half hidden in shadow but you don't care. _You don't care that you could die here, out in the open, away from your friends, your brothers who have welcomed you with open arms; you, the drunken cynic who only stayed because of one man. Apollo… Apollo, a golden God walking amongst mere mortals, rallying them to a blood soaked standard that will in time lead you to the cold, clear land of freedom. What are you compared to him? Nothing. What right have you to sully that pure, white soul with your darkening cloud of cynicism and drunkenness? Standing the silence, you welcome the thought of death. Welcome the blank numbness of unreality that you are sure will be pulled over your struggling soul sooner rather than later. Welcome the darkness; the soft, enticing darkness that will steadily pull you away from this broken world of pain and loss. _But not yet. Death will wait; the dark cloaked devil leaning on a smoky trident will wait; blank eyes unseeing as it watches you; considers you; the drunken cynic with nothing left to live for if that tiny, fiery ball of life has been snuffed out and it is your fault... All your fault...

But now is not the time for Death. Now is the time for Gavroche and all you want... All you want to do is to reach the gamin and get him out. Get him to the dark, smoky safety of the Café Musain where, finally, you will be able to rest. Rest and rethink, be able to rebuild shattered strategies with clear heads. You will be able to find Joly or Combeferre and get them to tend to Gavroche's wounds. _With a pang of longing you imagine yourself sitting in your usual place in the comforting candlelit darkness of the Cafe, at the table underneath the window with the mop of angelic blonde curls in your lap as he slumbers on. In your head Combeferre kneels at your feet, a deft, experienced hand silently snipping away at the tattered remnants of the dark blue jacket that is caked with the scarlet, stinking blood that blossoms amongst the shit that Gavroche wears like a second skin. Whispered nonsensical words of comfort float through the heady, blood soaked air that is thick with fear; barely reaching the sleeping gamin, who is dead to the world; drugged with the remains of an old bottle of Laudanum found in 'Ferre's coat pocket in a moment of shining brilliance and the purity of the pain that surges through his tiny frame, steadily sapping every last strand of strength from shaking limbs. Courfeyrac watches in a strained silence, hovering anxiously at your shoulder, his eyes huge and glittering with unshed tears in the guttering candlelight._

_You will be able to listen to Enjolras as he stands on his usual table quoting Robespierre, the newly kindled fires of passion leaping high in those cold, blue eyes; telling you that you will try again tomorrow. That the people of Paris, the people whom you fight for, the people whom Jehan gave his life for will come. 'A man can only lie low and ignore the echoing pleas of his fellows for so long' he will say with such ringing conviction that you barely suppress a shiver of anticipation from charging up your spine. His profile seems to swim before your shattered eyes; an angelic figure, godlike in his presence… Cold, clear blue eyes… A mop of blonde hair falling carelessly into the wide pools that are the colour of calm water but can so easily change, the emotions he so deftly hides becoming so painfully clear in those wide, blue irises… The people will come. They've got to come. _You know that it is a desperate, evanescent fantasy, but one that you continue to cling to with all your fragile soul.

'Gavroche? Gavroche, please! I'm going to get you out!' You don't feel the confidence in your voice as you inch towards the body crouching in a steadily spreading stream of scarlet blood. Blood. So much blood. Why? Why is there so much blood? Your heart goes cold at the sight of the steadily growing scarlet stain, slowly seeping away his lifeblood into the stones below. Are you too late? You don't know, don't want to know… Your confidence vanishes faster than it appeared, leaving you cold and empty; the dark cloud of doubt tugging at the corners of your brain, threatening to envelop you in a whirlwind of pain and guilt. _Guilt at the fact that it is your fault. All your fault. If you hadn't let him go, if you had listened to Enjolras in the first place… If you had tried to go after to him… If... _

Tentatively, you take another step forward; heart hammering, your feet feeling as if they have been plunged into wet lead. Out of the corner of your eye, you can just make out the National Guardsman following you with his musket, one eye bent low to the sight level; the other scanning the deserted wasteland for any other signs of life. You hear it then. The words are barely a whisper as he forces them through bloody lips, the angelic mop of blond hair sullied with dirt and stiff with blood raising itself feebly; blue eyes flickering; clouded with the purity of the pain, floating on air that is thick with the stink of blood and fear. His pupils are slightly dilated as they widen in confusion at the sight of you; a question forming, dying on cracked and bloody lips 'Ssh,' you whisper, trying to inject some note of confidence into your shaking voice as you drop to your knees. 'Ssh 'roche, I'm here. It's going to be alright.' But is it? You don't know. You don't know anything anymore, except that you have to get Gavroche out of here, if by some miracle…

'_We'll fight like twenty armies…'_ Each word smashes to the ground as he struggles for breath. You nod encouragingly, beckoning him forward as he tries to crawl, clutching the heap of stolen ammunition firmly to his chest; refusing to even think about letting go. A sudden movement followed by an ominous clicking sound from behind you makes you freeze. You turn slowly, trepidation making every heartbeat seem to last a thousand years. Another blank faced Guardsman stands rapidly to attention; a shadowy blur of the tricolour colours against the blank stone wall. The musket is loaded, resting, waiting… No… No… 'Gavroche!' The urgency bites against your tongue as you beckon frantically, watching the blue eyes flicker with recognition and fail as he tries to do as he is bid. _'And we won't…give…' _

_That's it 'roche. That's it… Come on...You're nearly there… Come on… We'll get you to Joly, it's all right, he'll know what to do… That's it… Nearly there… You _barely hear the final shot as it slices through the heady June silence, the air thick with the metallic stench of blood and fear. All you see is the body falling, the final defiant cry dying on lips caked and bursting with the sweet scarlet sacrifice that pours sickingly in a river of red.

_No… Not Gavroche… Not Gavroche… This isn't happening… Tell me it's not… No…_ Somehow you feel yourself running, screaming, sobbing a name that bursts from another's lips as you feel Courfeyrac's presence beside you as you charge towards the corpse… No… Not a corpse… Not yet… Please God… Not yet… Your eyes are blinded with a salty lake of icy tears as you stumble towards the fallen body and feel yourself collapse beside it; your knees searing with pain you hardly feel. External pain that is nothing to the knife that has been plunged into your weeping heart and is being slowly twisted inwardly as a scarlet tribute to a lost life spreads silently across your chest…

Dimly you hear voices, but don't recognize their owners. They are merely words, a jumble of worthless, useless words… You feel hands on your trembling shoulders, holding you, rocking you as you struggle; desperately trying to shake them off. They are large hands; capable and dependable hands, which make you think of Bahorel. But you don't know. You don't care. Even Apollo's golden presence will not lighten the dark cloud of grief that has overcome his Dionysus as you cradle Gavroche to your chest, desperately listening for a tiny silver sliver of a heartbeat which you know will never come.

'Gavroche… 'Roche, please… wake up….' Courfeyrac's voice comes out in strangled sobs as he collapses against Combeferre's hard, dependable chest; weeping for a life that has been snuffed out too soon. Much too soon. You feel yourself shuffle forwards on your knees, ignoring the pain coursing up your calves and 'Feyrac's anguished howls of grief as unknown hands reach for the body but you cradle it closer to your chest; refusing to even think about letting go. Not now. Not when it is your fault… The pain courses through you like iced fire, leaping, cackling, relishing in your grief as you cradle the gamin to your chest; thinking of the last time you held him; that struggling bundle of unsurpassable energy who had looked up at you with wide, blue eyes the colour of calm water; the flame of passion leaping high within the inky pupils. The eyes are blank now, blank and glassy like a rain washed mirror. The pale freckled skin is icy beneath your shivering fingers; the eyes blank, the bursting bloom of blood that caresses his mouth slowly caking into a dark brown stain.

'Grantaire', Enjolras's voice is tight with supressed emotion as he gazes down at the gamin lying so peacefully in your arms, that to an untrained eye he could be sleeping. The irony is almost laughable as you choke back another sob, feeling it roll painfully back into the dark depths of your parched throat. 'Grantaire, there's no time…' You shake your head forcefully, refusing to accept that once again; Apollo is right. Apollo is always right. Supporting his head, you slowly place your lips to the marble, freckled skin that is void of all colour, save the icy chill of death that has smothered him in its' icy embrace, wishing that this wasn't so. _Wishing that you had done something sooner… anything…_ From behind you, you can faintly hear Courfeyrac's muffled howls of grief as Combeferre supports his shivering body as gently as if he were a frightened child, whispering nonsensical words of comfort that mean nothing now. _What use are words now? Now that everything is over, everything you stood for? Now that brave, ferocious, little life filled with the fire of the revolution has been so cruelly snatched away from you? Why fight now? When all will soon be lost… When your little, insignificant lives will be tossed carelessly away into the dark mists of time, never to be thought of again…_ 'Farewell my brother', the words fall from your lips unrehearsed as you cradle him closer to your heaving chest, trying to remember. Trying not to forget.

_**Fin**_

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Constructive critcisims, suggestions, comments etc are my virtual chocolate to my brain at the moment! This may be my last one on here for some time because I've got A-Levels to revise for and am officially having the week from Hell in terms of past papers and questions, so my dear, dear readers, you unfortunately will have to wait until either my Muse returns or I am free from the tyranical hand of public exams! Much love and enjoy! Phoenixflames12 xxxx**_


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